Political buzz and a prayer for Obama

sent via e-mail 11-27-08

Hello everyone,

For those of you back in the chilly USA, I'm sure the country is buzzing with the anticipation of a change of president and political administration. Classrooms and coffeeshops are no doubt full of dialogue and debate; people are ready for change and everyone seems eager to weigh in on what our new President-Elect ought to do first.

Let me assure you: We Americans are not the only ones excited and ready for change.

Here in Guinea, Barack Obama has achieved, in a matter of mere months, mythical, almost deified status. In rice bars and buvettes, salon de coiffures and taxi cabseverywhere I go people only want to talk about one thing: Obama, Obama, Obama. Some enterprising Guinean has started printing laminated "ID cards" with a picture of Obama and the White House on it. The card reads:

"M. Barack Obama. The First Black Prsident in the Maison Blanche."

Somebody's gotta tell that guy to pick a language and stick with it. Still, our bilingual entrepreneur has hit it big: Everyone, from high school students to local butchers to ladies selling onions in the marketplace, seems to have an Obama card clipped to their shirt or pants. Local politicians have even started promoting their own campaigns with messages like:

"Barack Obama and Idrissa Diallo: Both young. Both leaders. Both with the same goal: change."

I hope Mr. Obama knows he's got a kindred spirit way over here in Guinea ;). You bring that change, Idrissa.

The day after the elections, I sat down and spilled some thoughts into my journal, reflecting on the history that had been made in my country and the ripple effect this history-making would have on places like Guinea.

Let me share these thoughtsuneditedwith you now:

11/6/08 Salon de la maison

Wellit's official: Barack Obama is the President-Elect of the United States! Unbelievable. On Tuesday at about 16h30 I grabbed my bike and rode up to Dalaba to join Katy, John, Marg (other PCVs), and the Campbells (the missionary couple) to watch the returns together at Katy's host family's house.

We chatted and dozed and ate popcorn, watching Wolf Blitzer and the gang make their "CNN Projections" and analyze exit polls (ah, the beauty of satellite TV ;). By 3am here it was clear Obama was going to win, having taken Pennsylvania and Ohio, but we wanted to wait to watch the various speeches, which we did. McCain's speech was classy and gracious, which really impressed me, and Obama's was good as well, although there weren't any history-making lines.

Manwhat a moment for America and the world! A black man as president of the US. Incredible. I got back from Dalaba yesterday morning and greeted the folks hanging out at M. Diallo's, and we all shook hands and cheered and Mme Diallo showed off the Obama bracelet I gave her. Everywhere I go in the village people are buzzing, talking about Obama and the changements he's going to bring to the world. M.Sow: "Maintenant Obama va arranger le probleme de visa, n'est-ce pas?" Now Obama's gonna fix the visa problem, right? (read: visas for everyone! Especially Guineans like me!)

Sitting on the Diallo's porch last night chatting about all this, Elhadj Khalil made an interesting point: if things aren't going well in the US, they aren't going well in the world; if things go well in the US, it's like a door is opened to allow the world to function better. I'm inclined to agreeand I'm also excited to respond to the next person who calls the US layli portoland of white peopleby saying president amen ko o baleejoour president is black! What an amazing thing.

Despite the excitement, of course, I am sobered by the huge problems in the world right now and the reality that Jesus, not the American government, is the force that can really bring lasting, true change in the world.

I pray for Obama and the people around him, for his new cabinet, the new Senate, all the changes taking place at the highest levels of government. Lord, I pray that you would use these authorities and powerswho have their power because you have let them have it to bring relief and aid to the suffering people of the world, to help the poorest of the poor, to bring peace in the war-torn regions of the world, especially Iraq and Afghanistan, to bring an end to US-sponsored torture, to bring concrete, visionary legislation on climate change and solid steps forward in changing the way we Americans think about resources and our hallowed consumerist "way of life."

I know that your Kingdom does not work like the Kingdoms of the world, least of all like the "American Empire" which dominates right now. Yet, Lord, good can come out of government, and presidents, and policies, and I pray, for the sake of rich and poor, black and white, American and Iraqi and Guinean and Chinese, that the folks in those high-level positions would truly seek you and seek to have America bless you, and not necessarily the other way around.

In the meantime, here I am in Boulliwel, eating rice, shaking lots of hands, trying to spread love and kindness and relevant health teaching. I wonder what kind of an impact a new president would have on a place like Boulliwel, if any, and I'll be interested to see if, between now and Feb. 2010, the new administration makes any realistic, concrete changes to the Peace Corps.

Whether or not it does, I want to continue seeking you, Jesusto honor you with my service here in Boulliwel and open my heart, mind, and body to you to be used by you. This is the greatest privilege in the world that I could possibly think of. Live through me today as I hang out with kids, finish my analysis of my health survey, and chat with the folks in the community.

Amen.

Well, guys thanks for reading, once again, if you've got this far. No matter who you voted for or where you stand on the political spectrum, I encourage you to join me in praying for our leaders and the world during this time.

Once again, I'm coming home for Christmas, from 12/23-1/14. My folks have moved to north of Boston so I'll be with them for most of the time. I'm planning on taking a quick trip up to Middlebury and maybe a trip to the Brookwoods Winter Reunion, so I'd love to see any and all folks who are around!

In the meantime,
Much love,
Andrew

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving! They sent us a turkey way up here in Labecan't wait to mange! ;)

Storytime!

sent via e-mail 10/30/08

Hello everyone,
Because of the explosive content of this email, I have to put the following disclaimer before I continue:

****** THESE ARE NOT THE VIEWS OF PEACE CORPS NOR OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT. THESE ARE SOLELY THE BIASED, REDUCTIONIST VIEWS OF ONE PEACE CORPS VOLUNTEER.******

That said: Since the beginning of September, I've been doing a public health survey in three villages around Boulliwel. These villages' names can perhaps tell us something about their accessibility (or lack thereof): Bhawo Fello (which means "Behind Mountain" in Pular), Aind Fello ("Side of Mountain"), and Hor Fello ("On top of Mountain"). The Guinean Highlands are certainly beautiful, and offer pretty views and a relatively cooler climate compared to the rest of Guinea, yet if the names of these villages give you any idea, many Highland areas are hard to get to.

Needless to say, over the several weeks I was doing the survey, my bike and I bonded heartily over kilometer after kilometer of rocky grades, muddy puddles, and cows who refuse to leave the middle of the path until you throw things: sticks, rocks, bike helmets, etc. I came back from one muddy ride in the bush to a group of kids who started chanting, "Boubacar woni baleejo, Boubacar woni baleejo!"Boubacar's turned black.
I guess I was pretty dirty. The wet season sure has made me miss those sleek, modern, boxes of luxurywhat do you call them again? Oh yeahwashing machines.
But I'm getting off topic. The health survey. I want to tell you a story of the time I went to Aind Fello and met a guy named Abdoul Karim.

Aind Fello's a sleepy little village of mud huts and rice farmers. We picked it for the survey pretty much randomlyI certainly hadn't been there before. Thus, the "Aind Fello" day of the survey, I woke up, ate breakfast, asked M. Diallo for directions, grabbed my bike, and rode off down the road without really knowing what I was getting myself into. This happens a lot here. Me not knowing what I'm getting myself into, I mean.

Anyway, I rode down the main road a ways and stopped a few km up at a clearing where M. Diallo said I had to leave my bike and walk down the mountain to get to the village. As I've said, I wasn't exactly sure where I was going so I was pleased to meet some villagers at the clearing who were from Aind Fello. One of them, Abdoul Karim, was hiking down to the village and offered to show me the way. So I stashed my bike in the bushes and followed him down the mountain path.

In chatting with Abdoul Karim, I quickly learned a few things about him: He was a subsistence farmer who had grown up in Aind Fello; He had a wife and a couple young children at the house; He liked hunting (clearly a true statement: he was carrying an old rifle with him just in case he saw something worth shooting); and he hadn't had much educationa couple years at an cole Franco-Arabe, one of the numerous Saudi-financed schools where kids supposedly learn French and Arabic and where the curriculum combines both secular and religious teaching. He didn't speak French, however, and thus we conversed in Pular. He was kind, polite, and seemed eager to help.


We hiked down to the village and went first to meet the local authorities. Abdoul Karim introduced me, told them what I had come for (which, surprisingly, he had understood after my meandering, mistake-filled explanation in Pular), and then we all sat and exchanged pleasantries. I could tell already that Abdoul Karim had taken a liking to me and was going to be an asset in accomplishing the survey. I had taken a liking to him as well.
The chef du secteur (like the local chief or mayor) explained that most of the people of Aind Fello were at their fields right now, and thus to do my door-to-door question-asking I needed to wait until Fanaa, the 2pm prayer. So we ended up sitting around for awhile. This happens a lot here. Sitting around doing nothing, I mean.

So we sat around, chatting about the weather and the harvest (my basic Pular didn't allow me much conversational profundity), killing time before the farmers got back. There was a lull in the conversation, and I decided to stare at an avocado tree until somebody spoke up again. This time it was Abdoul Karim.

"And, Bin Laden," he said nonchalantly, as if he was asking about my wife or kids. He didn't say anything more, but the way he said what he said was as if he added, "what do you think about him?"

I took my eyes off the avocado tree and stared at him, surprised.
"The terrorist?" I asked, needing clarification.
"YeahOsama Bin Laden," he said, and others in the circle nodded knowingly. "He doesn't like Americans, does he."
"Nope, he sure doesn't," I said, still a little stunned by this conversational twist. "He's not a good man." I would have used stronger language, but my limited Pular vocabulary wouldn't let me.
"He's the one who wrecked your towers," another man chimed in. This wasn't really a question, more of a commentperhaps a proof of Bin Laden's distaste for Americans.
"Yeah, I know," I said. "I remember." I didn't really know what else to say so I just repeated what I said about him being bad.
"You haven't caught him yet, have you?" asked another man.
"No, not yet," I said. "How do you guys know about Bin Laden?" I asked. These were, after all, a group of illiterate peasant farmers.
Abdoul Karim piped up again. "We saw a video of his once in Boulliwel." Nods from others.
"In Boulliwel?! Really?" I asked, incredulously. This was the first time I'd heard of anything like this since I'd been in Guinea.
"Yeah, in Boulliwel," Abdoul Karim said.

I continued asking questions, curious and somewhat disturbed. What was an Osama Bin Laden video doing way out here in Guinea? People here aren't terroristsmost are just friendly, simple African villagers. Besides, Muslims here practice JV Islam, anywaywomen wear tank-tops and breast-feed in public! Boulliwel has a night-club and a bar! Heinous. I know more about Islam than most practicing Muslims here. The idea of terrorist Wahhabism infiltrating my village just didn't compute for me.

I asked them to elaborate, which they did: They had seen a video and heard various messages of propaganda, yet at the same time they agreed that Bin Laden was a "bad man," and that terrorism was bad. Abdoul Karim was one of the most outspoken denouncers of Bin Laden's violent ways and tended to nod and grunt vociferously when others said similar things. We continued in this vein of conversation for awhile, until we had all sort of agreed Bin Laden was bad, and there was nothing left to say, really. There was a pause for a little while and then somebody changed the topic. On the whole, it was a weird, out-of-place kind of conversation.
Soon the men started coming back from the fields. I was about to start my door-to-door interviews when the sky, which had been threatening all morning, opened up on us. Abdoul Karim grabbed my bad for me and told me to follow him, and we scurried to shelter on his porch. We both agreed to wait there for awhile until the rain subsided, yet 45 minutes in it didn't look like any subsiding was going to happen anytime soon. My gracious host asked me if I wanted to lie down until the rain stopped and I, being a fan of naps anytime, anywhere, gratefully acceded.
Abdoul Karim opened the door to his house and ushered me in whenWHAM!the first thing I noticed was:

Osama Bin Laden's bearded face staring at me.
It jarred me. On the wall across from the door were two large posters, each bearing sizable pictures of the terrorist in question. Arranged around each of these photos were more pictures of Bin Laden, pictures of airplanes and the twin towers, and Arabic script which I, unfortunately, haven't yet learned to read.

I just stared, not really knowing what to do. Abdoul Karim, however, didn't seem fazedhe just pointed at the posters and said, nonchalantly, "there's Bin Laden."
No kidding, chief.

Completely ignorant to my emotional and intellectual perturbation, Abdoul Karim took my arm and led me to his room to lie down. After asking me if I needed anything else, he closed the door and left me staring at the ceiling, perplexed.

Here was this Guinean farmer, virtually uneducated, living in an isolated village in the Highland bush. What in the world was he doing with two huge posters of Osama Bin Laden hanging on the wall of his living room? Was he a terrorist-in-training? Did he have any idea what al-Qaeda was all about? Or was he just ignorant, and somebody gave him some poster stuff of Bin laden so he put it up in his house? As I said before, none of this computed with my previous experience of Islam in Guinea, which had all seemed pretty harmless, if foreign. Yet pictures of American skyscrapers exploding were another thing entirely.

Abdoul Karim's story has no flashy ending. I napped for awhile, the rain stopped, and with my host's willing help, I went door to door and asked my questions about vaccinations and potable water. Abdoul Karim continued to be gracious and supportive, in the fine tradition of African hospitality. He even lent me his family's only umbrella to take with me on the trek back up to the road. I finished the survey, hiked out, grabbed my bike, rode back to Boulliwel, ate rice and sauce with the Diallos, and crashed. I haven't seen Abdoul Karim since, and haven't yet gone back to Aind Fello to do my sensitization. Yet the whole encounter has raised some provocative questions that I can't seem to ignore.

This was my first brush with what my government would call our great enemy in the much-heralded "War on Terror." The way the Bush administration tells the story, we are in an ideological strugglefreedom versus oppression, democracy versus totalitarianism, "Muslim" extremism versus "Christian" influence in economics and politics. The battleground, I imagine they would say, is in the hearts and minds of people like Abdoul Karim.
Bush and Bin Laden have squared offfor better or for worseeach in competition over Abdoul Karim's worldview.


In a way, then, Abdoul Karim has been met, head on, by each side's ideological salvo. Bin Laden has spread his tapes and his teaching throughout the Muslim world, seeking to win converts to his violent, extremist dogma. Bush, on the other hand, has dispatched mea 23-yr. old WASP filled with high notions of justice and peacemaking, to live in Abdoul Karim's community and learn his language.

These two forces clashed that rainy day in Aind Fello, and now I am forced to ask the question: Who won? Or who is winning? And what is the bigger picture anyway?
Over the next year and four months of service, I hope to continue building relationships with folks like Abdoul Karim. I hope to bring public health messages in a spirit of compassion that will help villagers maintain healthier living habits and protect themselves and their children from preventable diseases like malaria and tuberculosis. I recognize that any trainings or teachings I do must be reinforced by kindness and openness on a personal, relational levelI must show these folks that I care about them.


If, at the end of my service, Abdoul Karim is still attracted to the idea of violence against Americans, I will have done a very poor job as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Osama Bin Laden may have enticing propaganda backed up with religious justification, yet he is still just a face on a TV screen or a poster. America, on the other hand, has hiked with Abdoul Karim, slept in his bed, and eaten with him out of the same bowl. To Abdoul Karim, America has a real face, and it needs a shave before it goes home for Christmas;).


I wish the picture were simple and relational like this. I wish that, after 9/11, Bush and his advisors had met and decided to send out the best, brightest Americans to all Muslim countries to build schools, hospitals, and soccer fields, to learn Arabic (or Pashtun or Farsi or Pular;), build relationships and get to work at the difficult business of reconciliation and peacemaking. I wish they had quadrupled the size and budget of the Peace Corps and sent out recruiters to all corners of our country to encourage young people to sign up. I wish they had looked at the big picture and decided to tackle the root causes of Muslim extremismnamely poverty and ignorance due to lack of a balanced education. I wish they had responded to horrific violence with a message of love and forgiveness.

Sadly, this was not our country's response. Two wars, hundreds of billions of dollars, and hundreds of thousands of dead Afghans, Americans, and Iraqis later, we are still battling these same ideological forces and the world seems more dangerous than ever.
You would think, at the very least, we would have expanded and fully supported the Peace Corps, right? Again, sadly, this was not our country's response. This fiscal year the budget for Peace Corps, an agency employing close to 8000 American Volunteers and countless host country nationals, serving in 74 countries all over the world in areas such as agro-forestry, education, and health, is 343 million dollars. This may sound like a lot at first, yet when you compare it to our nation's defense budget of over 500 billion dollars, it's pennies. According to the National Priorities Project, one day in Iraq costs 341 million dollars. One Volunteer claims that the military spends more on coffee for its servicemen than on all of Peace Corps (I just hope it's good coffee, after all ;).

Here in Guinea, we've started to feel the crunch. Already, three of our top Guinean administrators have left the Peace Corps to work for mining companies elsewhere in country. These were highly-qualified, experienced program coordinators, all of whom had studied in the US and then came back to help their country develop. Yet, the offer of significantly higher salaries working in the private sector was too much to turn down, and now we are left scrambling to fill the gaping holes they've left behind. Every meeting we have together with the administration, we hear talk of budget cuts, of lack of funding, of "sorrys" and "we just have to deal." Which we will. Yet it seems a sad reflection of our country's priorities to think that they could take just one multi- million dollar smart bomb, and not buy it, and have enough funds to greatly reinforce every Peace Corps offices' capacity and expand into several new countries who have asked for Volunteers but have been told to wait.

But that's enough of that ramble. This is surely, as I said in the beginning, a biased, nearsighted view of the situation, and certainly not intended to offend anyone (least of all my awesome brother who's serving as a Lieutenant in the Navy in San Diego :). Yet these are realities that are hard to ignore being a salaried employee of the US government right now. I think we all look forward to the pending change in administration with hope and expectancy for a foreign policy that is more humble, thoughtful, and compassionate.

In the meantime,
Yours from Guinea,
Andrew

P.S. As you may have noticed if you read closely, I'm coming home for Christmas! Thanks to the generosity of my family, both nuclear and extended (the extent of said generosity still needs to be, ahem, worked out, of course), I'll be flying home on Dec. 22nd and staying in the States til Jan. 12th. I'd love to hang out with people if you're around!
P.P.S. I'm working on a funded project right now and will have more details to you guys all soon if you are interested in contributing in some way.
P.P.P.S. If you'd like a little more info about the Peace Corps budget situation, check out this article by the LA Times:
www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-peacecorps14-2008sep14,0,3857618.story

Estrogen and the crazy porto conference

Sent via e-mail 8/10/08
Dearest friends and family,

Next time work seems long and boring, a stack of exorbitant bills arrives in your mailbox, and you get stuck next to a smelly hill-billy named Icharus on your 30 minute subway ride to work, just remember: you are NOT a woman in Guinea. It could be worse.

As I've mentioned in previous emails, so, so many women in Guinea lead a tragically difficult and underappreciated existence. Women are expected to do 90% of the manual labor in a country whose infrastructure resembles that of mid-19th century America: They wake up at dawn, scrub the house clean, get water from the well, do the day's laundry with buckets and a washboard, cook lunch over an open fire in a pot resting on three rocks, serve lunch, clean up after lunch, wash the dishes, cook dinner, serve dinner, clean up dinner, turn in and get ready to do it all over again the next day. Many women also have fields and crops to tend to, or small "boutiques" (read: tables with some piles of onions, tomatoes, or dried fish) where they sell goods to help support their families. Almost all the middle-aged women I've seen have a host of children to look after (like cooking and cleaning, taking care of children is viewed as the travail des femmes, or women's work; NOT men's); many perform all the above tasks while pregnant or with babies tied to their backs.

As a thank-you for all their hard work around the house, women are oftentimes treated as second-class citizens. Polygamy, as I've mentioned, is a widespread practice: Most respectable men in Bouliwel have at least two wives (of course it could never work the other way—a wife having many husbands, I mean) (I asked about that the other night and was answered with a host of clucks and chuckles, even from the women).

A friend of mine, an employee at the health center, just married for a second time. When I asked him what his first wife thought about it, he said he never asked her. When I pressed him, he said, "It doesn't matter what she thinks. It's not her business whether or not I want to take a deuxieme femme." Sad but true. Ah, Guinea.

With an outlook for most women as bleak as this, you can imagine the many hurdles that girls must face on their path to womanhood. Education is largely the domain of men; Boys are expected to study, girls are expected to stay home and do chores. This year's 9th grade class at the Bouliwel middle school (we don't have a high school) consisted of 33 boys and 6 girls; the 10th grade, 15 and 2. Girls are often given in marriage at age 14 or 15 to men twice their age. Imagine if, for your sweet 16th, you were kicked out of your house and sent to live with a man of 35 who already had two wives, both of whom resented your presence in "their" foyer? One volunteer calls the practice of underage marriage—pardon the term—institutionalized rape.

It is in the middle of this culture that we Volunteers are thrust; they give us a bicycle and a local language notebook and tell us to have a positive impact. In light of the difficulties faced by women in Africa and all over the developing world, Peace Corps Volunteers worldwide make empowering women a top priority. Here in Guinea, we organize an annual Conference des Jeunes Filles, or Girls Conference, a three-day seminar where every Volunteer invites a girl from their village to learn about a whole range of issues, from women's rights, to excision, to gender roles, and public speaking.

We just had this year's conference last week!

Imagine this: Your name is Fatoumata Binta Sow. You are a 15-year old girl from a small village named Tountouroun, in the Fouta Djallon north of Labe. You are one of seven children, the oldest child your mother has had and the oldest girl in the family. You have left your village only twice in your lifetime, both times to go to larger towns for family reasons. You are very bright—indeed, you have the second highest grades in the 7th grade in your village middle school. When many of your girlfriends are out dancing, you light up the family's one kerosene lamp and study biology or French.

One day a random white girl shows up in your village! Nothing quite this exciting has happened in Tountouroun since before you can remember. Everything this porto does is exotic and funny and strange. She wears pants and lives by herself (she says she's 24 and she's not married yet!) and frequently travels in a shiny white Land Rover. She (allegedly) even wipes her butt with paper!

Slowly but surely, you introduce yourself and get to know her. She is really nice, and even though she does stuff that most women NEVER do, like eat with the men and smoke cigarettes, you grow to like her and look up to her quite a bit.

One day the porto girl invites you to go all the way to Mamou, five hours by bush taxi, to participate in something she calls a "Conference des Jeunes Filles." This seems like something you might dismiss as a "strange porto thing," but she seems serious. She even talks to the village authorities and worse, your dad, who tells you that you have to go. Yikes.

Turns out this "conference" is crazier than you thought. You show up in Mamou—your first visit to the "big city"—and are taken to a forestry school where they have electricity, cold cokes, and these metal tubes sticking out of the wall in the bathroom. All you have to do is turn a knob and water comes out! Insane. There's a lot of other girls here from all over Guinea—places like Boke, and Kankan, and Siguiri. You only know Pular and some French, but a lot of these girls speak languages you've only heard of, like Susu, and Kissi, and Malinke. One girl apparently spent 7 years in Liberia and even speaks English! Every girl has a porto with them as well, although none of them are quite as cool as yours. You've never seen so many white people in one place at one time. Heck, you've never seen this many white people in your whole life.

The next few days they talk to you about all sorts of things, like education (they all keep saying it's really important, so you're glad you're trying really hard!), and HIV/AIDS (you definitely don't want that!), and how to say no to boys (silly garcons). The third day a bunch of what the portos call "professional women" come and tell you all their stories about how they grew up and became educated and found jobs and stuff. They all speak really good French, which was kind of intimidating, but then when you got to talk to them after, they were really nice! You want to be just like one—her name's Odette—and work for the Peace Corps when you grow up.

By the end of the conference you've made 23 new best friends and got all the numbers of the cute porto guys. You are determined to finish middle school, to go to high school, maybe even try to go to the University in Conakry like Odette did! You are ready to tell your parents you don't want to get married until you're done with school, and you even want to start a Girl's Club in Tountouroun to encourage other girls to take their studies seriously. You cry when the Peace Corps car comes to take you back to your village but you're excited to go back and tell everybody what happened! You are going to talk about the Conference des Jeunes Filles for years!

This, my friends, should hopefully give you an idea of what happened here in Mamou this past week. To sum it up in a few words: Lots of portos, lots of deer-in-the-headlights Guinean girls, lots of silly skits (I played a Guinean woman twice), lots of estrogen. Good times!*

Thank you for reading, and please, keep the plight of Guinean women in your thoughts and prayers.

Much love,
Andrew

* Yes, I've changed, Karina Arrue. I think estrogen is cool now. Sorta.

Zoomy and the Forestiers

Sent via e-mail 7/30/08
Hello dearest friends and family,

A number of you have asked if I've been able to find a church to go to regularly here in Guinea. The answer, after long last, is yes. Yet the experience of finding a solid church (or any church ;) and attending a solid church is so hilariously different here that it makes me chuckle out loud just thinking about it (making the girl working on the computer to my left shoot me a strange glance and shuffle uncomfortably in her seat) (I shall compose myself).

Please let me explain.

Both before my departure and during my time here as a Volunteer, I've constistently prayed that God would guide me to some sort of Christian community for support and spiritual growth. As I've mentioned many times before, Guinea is a wonderful, beautiful country full of wonderful, beautiful people-- 90% of whom happen to be Muslim. My whole village of Bouliwel is unquestionably Muslim; of course, as with any religion in the world, certain people practice more devoutly than others. This can, as you might imagine, lead to some areas of tension or ill-will. It seems that the older you get in Bouliwel, the more religious you tend to be-- you settle down, you do your prayers, you stop dancing and drinking, etc. My counterpart, M. Diallo, and the other Health Center staff are all by-the-book Muslims and take their faith seriously. As soon as we finish our rice and sauce for lunch, they do their ablutions (washing their hands, feet, and face in order to be clean and respectful before God), roll out the prayer mat, take off their shoes, and recite their prayers, replete with Allahu Akbars ("God is great" in Arabic) and touching-their-heads-to-the-floor. They spend a few minutes bowing, kneeling, and saying "God is great," and then sit and count off 99 times on their rosaries. This is repeated five times a day-- 5am, 2pm, 5pm, 7pm, 8pm-- and is standard practice for any orthodox Muslim anywhere in the world. And Bouliwel, while not exactly what I imagine a place like Saudi Arabia is like, certainly plays home to many orthodox Muslims like Diallo, Sow, and my other friends in the village.

This is the environment into which I have been thrust-- a situation so wildly different from anything I have ever known. I love my village and my Muslim friends and "family" and soak up the opportunities to learn about a new culture and religion, yet it does not come without challenges. My faith in Christ, or I should say Christ himself, has played a huge role in guiding and sustaining me through cultural adjustments, loneliness, isolation, and daily experiences of suffering, some of which I've already relayed to you in previous emails. At the same time it has been exhaustingly difficult at times to pray alone day after day, to have the entire village-- jokingly or otherwise-- tell me I need to become Muslim, or to talk about my faith and receive blank stares or worse-- intolerant rebukes. This may help explain the persistence and consistence of my prayers for Christian community.

To try and find said community, one of the first Sundays during my service in Bouliwel I walked out to the main road, held out my hand, and yelled "Dalaba, Dalaba, Dalaba" as the bush taxis went by.

(Funny side note: I received a letter from a friend yesterday that said, "we'd like to know more about the church you've been going to. Apparently you go by taxi? We weren't aware there were taxis in your village." Um, if you mean taxis like New York City taxis, well, there certainly aren't any of those. But the one paved road in the Fouta Djallon runs right through the middle of Bouliwel and there are frequent occasions to catch a ride in a rusted-out 6-man Peugeout with 9 people in it. Just hold out your hand and hope there aren't too many goats stuffed in the trunk-- it makes for a less smelly ride ;)

Sunday being the market day in Dalaba, it was pretty easy to catch a .75 cent ride into town. Once there, I got out and started asking people "ko honto eglise woni"-- where's the church? They pointed me up the hill, where I discovered a decent-sized Catholic church with a friendly, colorful congregation of Guineans from the Forest region of the country, where Christianity is more widespread. I enjoyed the mass there and met some cool young people who were in Dalaba studying at the Institut du Medicine Veterinaire-- the Vet School in town. I was encouraged to meet other Christians and to experience singing, praying, and worshipping together in a community, and went back for several weeks.

I began to make it a routine of going to Dalaba on Sunday mornings for church, and I appreciated and enjoyed the community that I had found at the Catholic Church. At the same time, I had heard rumors that there was a Protestant Church somewhere in Dalaba but they didn't have a building yet. Apparently it was small but thriving and had several western missionaries involved in it somehow. Being a bit of a protester myself, I was curious and eager to find this church and check it out. I asked some of my Catholic friends but they weren't sure where it was. Hmmmm, I thought. Hmmm.

One week I began to pray in earnest about finding that silly Protestant church. I asked God to help me find it somehow, even though I didn't really know where to start. Earlier I had thought about asking the Priest at the Catholic Church but then I got kinda nervous and didn't. Praying in my house in Bouliwel seemed much safer, I suppose. Anyway, later that week I talked to my girlfriend Rene and lo and behold-- she had run into some missionaries in Nigeria who had some friends who were missionaries in Dalaba of all places! She gave me the name of this guy Bill and told me to look 'im up.

That Sunday I got out of the 15-person van I had ridden up in (me and 24 other people-- nice and cozy ;) and began asking everyone where the eglise protestante was. They all pointed me up the hill to the Catholic church, at which point I stated, slowly and clearly, that that was the catholic church, and where was the protestant one? Blank stares. D'oh. At one point I had a guy who was sure he knew where it was and sent me off walking to the other side of town. I was beginning to think I was on a wild goose chase when all of a sudden, wham! A car drives by me with the words "Eglise Protestante Evangelique de la Guinee" written on the side.

Whoa! I started scurrying, in a dignified kind of way of course, after the car. They would have long left me behind and gone over the hill except that one guy stopped and wanted to buy some chickens. So I caught up, and asked them if they were involved with the eglise protestante. Yup, they said. I asked them if they were going to church that morning. Yup. I asked them if I could go with them. Yup. Sweetness.

So I hopped in their car, shook a few hands, and got shuttled off to the protestant church (which, I might add, was on the totally OPPOSITE side of town from where that one dude was sending me ;). Apparently the guys in the car were the pastors from Labe and Mamou who were in Dalaba for an administrative meeting of some sort. They were gracious and helpful in inviting me to come join them for worship and meet the members of the community there.

The eglise met in the upstairs room of a large house on the hill opposite the marketplace. I was warmly welcomed and given a place upfront next to this one forestier (term denoting a person who is from the forest region of Guinea) (like the Catholic church, most of the people involved with the protestant church were from the forest) (Donnie Stuart thinks that terminology is funny and it makes him think of forest-dwellers or something-- whatever that is) (silly Donald) guy.

I was sitting there chatting him up when this porto walked in, and I was like, "deeeh, what's a white person doing here?" Exactly like that.

Turns out it was Bill-- you know, the guy Rene told me to look up? How cool is that? Bill is this late 50s Canadian-Scottish dude who has lived in Guinea for 11 years. He's a little awkward to talk to at first and his hands are a little shaky but it was so nice to see another Westerner. He invited me over for lunch at his place the next day, which was truly amazing. He and his wife both live in Dalaba long-term along with another older couple and a single woman who are both with his same mission. They hung out with me, sang with me, prayed with me, and encouraged me in my work in Bouliwel. And they gave me amazing food-- I mean, brownies? Insane. And real coffee. Funny the things you really miss when you're stuck in a podunk African village for two years.

Anyway, I was really grateful to make the connections with Bill and the folks from his mission. He and his wife are in Canada right now on home service, but will be back in February and have promised to bring more coffee. Oh, and, you know, be Christians with me.

Oh, and the church? Awesome. Really vibrant. Imagine a decent-sized, kinda drafty room with some wooden benches and a wooden pulpit. Now imagine a few songbooks and a drum. Now imagine that room is filled with noisy Africans singing and dancing and shaking hands and you've got this church. I've been going regularly now and am so thankful for the community and spiritual support that I get there. I've made some solid friends with some of the guys there, many of whom study or work in Dalaba but are really forest-dwellers (Donald).

The one forestier dude's name is Zoomy. Seriously. Last Tuesday Zoomy did the presentation of his memoire (basically his doctoral dissertation at the vet school), and he invited me to go, so I biked up to Dalaba and watched. He talked about parasites and chimpanzees. It was great.

Anyway, all that's to say-- this is absurdly long, again-- but I've found a sweet church and made some great connections there. Thank God. I've also planted a garden full of beans and basil and moringa trees and started to look into doing a couple funded projects. More on that in the future.

'Til next time,
Thanks for reading, Mom and Sophie Aubry. You guys rule.
Much love to all,
From Africa,
Aboubacar

Another Sad One

Sent via e-amil 7/5/08
Hello dear friends and family,

Here's a head's up before you read: I wish I could have all my emails be funny and light-hearted, but it wouldn't be a truthful reflection of the reality of life here. This one recounts some community events that occured last Sunday-- please have a read but I warn you: it's a little heavy.

Last Sunday morning-- my first Sunday back in Bouliwel after being on vacation seeing Rene-- I went through my normal routine, excited to be back in my village after long last. I woke up, made some coffee in my newly purchased French press (glorious.), had some prayer time, took my shower, changed, and headed out the door to get a taxi to Dalaba for church. As I walked up the dirt road towards the main carrefour [intersection], greeting people and shaking hands, a car suddenly roared over the hill heading towards the health center, towing a wake of distressed and screaming women and children in its wake. I had to get out of the way to avoid getting hit, and, puzzled, asked one of the men nearby what was going on.

"Il y avait un accident sur la route la bas," he said frankly. There was an accident on the main road my my village's marketplace.
"Un accident?!" I asked. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passe?" What happened?
"Une petite fille etait tape par un taxi," he said. A little girl was hit by a taxi.

A wave of goosebumps washed over me as I heard that. Oh no. I pressed him for more information-- how bad was it? What was she doing in the road? Whose fault was it? -- but he didn't seem to know much more than that. I turned and joined the crowd of people heading down the road to the health center where they had taken the girl.

When I got there, there was a huge crowd of people already gathered outside: Men, women, children-- all milling around, some yelling, others crying, still others having heated discussions about the unacceptable practices of Guinean taxi drivers. I pushed my way through and went into the health center.

The little girl was in one of the sick rooms. I walked in, expecting to see her being attended to by the health center staff, yet they were nowhere to be seen (turns out M. Diallo was seeing a patient and M. Sow was in Mamou for the day). When people noticed the porto had appeared in the health center they all turned to me, imploring me to do something to help her.

Oh no, I thought. I'm not a doctor, nor am I qualified or comfortable giving this kind of care. Yet there was nothing else to do, so I approached the girl's bedside and walked through my tried-and-true CPR techniques. Was she coherent? No. She was in a state of shock, unconscious, and coughing up blood. Did she have a pulse? Yes, thank God. Was she breathing? Yes, ragged, bloody gasps. She must have had some kind of internal bleeding.

I called her name several times: Safiatou! Safiatou! Her older brother-- a friend of mine-- was next to me, shaking his head and saying we ought to take her to Mamou, where they have a bigger hospital. I just looked at her and said a prayer: God, please let this girl live.

The next moment a consensus seemed to have been made: take the girl to Mamou. I grabbed the brother and another guy and we lifted her carefully off the bed, out the door and into the waiting taxi. As we brought her out the crowd just gasped and chattered, women crying and children staring wide-eyed. We put her in the taxi and it zoomed off to the regional hospital. I just stared after it, watching it go and praying under my breath.

The day passed normally after that: Church in Dalaba, hang-time with the Volunteers there, and a trip to the weekly marketplace. That night, back in Bouliwel, the honks of a car announced the bad news: the girl had died.

Two cars came screeching into Bouliwel in front of my house, and soon the wailing began again, this time in unison, declaring the sadness and pain of another loss.

The arrangements were made quickly and efficiently: the burial was done the next morning and all the proper procedures were followed.

Ah, Bouliwel! So much suffering, so much pain. If only people would drive more cautiously, think with more common sense, act with more care!

My heart just aches sometimes for the suffering of this village that I have come to love. If you have read this, thank you showing compassion (suffering alongside) for a few moments.

Much love,
Andrew

Ten Things I Hate (Love) About Guinea

Sent via e-mail 6/24/08

Hello all,

So there's a popular girl movie, Ten Things I Hate About You. I saw it once, and vaguely remember hoping that the general chick-flickishness of the film would make one of the two girls I went with develop instantaneous crushes on me. While leaving the cinema, I think I may have mentioned that the plot of the movie is taken from a Shakespeare play (it is, n'est-ce pas?). Middle school not being the age when looking knowledgeable about Shakespeare is cool, I fear this may have tanked my hopes.

Needless to say, Ten Things I Hate About You randomly popped into my head today as I was riding in a taxi in downtown Conakry. I was en ville, en route to the bank. This was my first day being in Guinea after a beautiful, heavenly, 10-day vacation visiting my girlfriend Rene Marshall in England and N. Ireland, and thus was making a few mini-adjustments being back-- firmly-- in the heart of the developing world.

As the chauffeur passed me the car's one handle to roll down the window, I shook my head distractedly at a young man earnestly trying to sell me cheap plastic belts and reflected: "What are ten things I hate about Guinea?"

As soon as I thought that, it seemed like a dumb question. A much BETTER question would be, of course (cue an image of Meg McFadden, sitting across the table from you, holding a mug of tea and looking very interested in what you were about to say):

"What are ten things I love about Guinea?"

Having given it a little thought, here are ten things, in no particular order:

1. Big, beautiful, majestic baobab trees. They line the main streets in Conakry and provide shade, serenity, and splendor.

2. Clearing cows off of my yard in order to reach the latrine where I do my business.

3. Being mobbed by a horde of children every time I return to my village after a trip away (looking forward to that tomorrow evening!).

4. Knowing and being known by every single person in my village.

5. Bartering for everything. You walk to the marketplace-- there are no price tags here! 95% of the vendors can't even read. You approach a woman; let's say you want her tomatoes. You don't, of course, simply ask her how much the tomatoes are. First you ask her how her family is, her children, her work. You both laugh as she compliments you on your ragged attempts to speak her native language. You glance at the tomatoes, then, and venture the question: Ko jelu? [how much?] Let the fun begin! She names a price-- you act deeply offended and make disapproving noises with your tongue. You propose a lower price-- she dishes back the 'tude, complete with tongue noises. You do this for a while, faces stony, until you eventually agree on a price. Whoop! That was easy. Smiles return, tomatoes go into the bag held by one of your eager child helpers, you wish one another well, and continue on your way. Just like shopping at the Acme, right? ;)

6. Bike rides, at sunset, in the foothills around my village.

7. Children here are so helpful-- I can grab any child, at any time, and send them off on an errand. Need water from the pump? Hello, Siradjo! Need bread from the marketplace? Bonjour, Alphadjo! This isn't exploitation, this is cultural assimilation! It's just what people do here. And the kids are generally happy to help. Plus they know that the porto [me] gives out good rewards: candy, piggy-back rides, and old Sports Illustrateds.

8. Teaching children silly things like how to shuffle cards the American way (you know, with the waterfall) or sing properly all the words to the chorus of Akon's "Don't Matter."

9. Meeting up with other Peace Corps Volunteers after a long two weeks at site and enjoying the ease with which the English you speak rolls off your tongue. Wow-- I can actually say what I mean and be understood!! Glorious.

10. Eating bucketfuls of juicy, sweet mangoes.

So there you have it. Guinea (and I) enjoyed the presence of Donnie Stuart for 8 days at the beginning of June. Have questions? Comments? Concerns? Please toss them my way (or his!). It is a pleasure to share little slices of my life here in Africa, and I hope and pray that these little emails would encourage others to deepen their vision and understanding for the forgotten countries of the world.

Til the next time,
Love you all!
Andrew

"Andrew, what do you actually do? You know, for a job?"

Sent via e-mial 5/31/2008
Hello everybody,

So as you all will no doubt remember, my last soul-less, industrial mass email kicked off a new series of Andrew's Guinea emails titled: "Answers to random questions you may have about my life here in Guinea."

This week's installment:

"Andrew, what do you actually do? You know, for a job?"

Great question. To answer, I will take you inside the planning, preparation, and execution of my latest health sensitization at the local ecole primaire* [please refer to the appendix at the bottom of the page if necessary] in my village.

As I've mentioned in previous emails, malaria presents an enormous problem here in Guinea. As the primary cause of death in the prefecture* where I live, malaria claims the lives of men, women, and children on an almost daily basis, particularly during the first few months of the rainy season (May, June, July). Although it is heavily over-diagnosed in local health centers (due to poorly-trained staff and/or the oversimplification of symptom diagnosis by the Ministry of Public Health here) and thus the numbers tallying the total of malaria patients are almost always inflated, the disease nonetheless continues to be an serious issue-- one made all the more tragic because of its preventability.

With this in mind, two weeks ago I set to work organizing a series of health sensitizations to be given in the local primary school discussing the topic of malaria: what it is, its symptoms, what to do if you get it, and most importantly for my work, how to prevent it.

The process went through several phases:

Phase # 1: Asking and getting permission
So very little gets accomplished in Guinea outside of the traditional, top-down heirarchical structures that are in place. If someone wants to organize a project in the village, they must first talk with the sous-prefet*, the village sages* and the authorities responsible for the sector in which they want to work (in this case, the directeur de l'ecole primaire*). To not do so would be a significant breach in protocol and cause all sorts of silly problems that would hinder one's progress.
Trying hard to be a good culturally-sensitive volunteer, one day last week I went to the sous-prefet's office and told him I wanted to do some presentations on malaria in the primary schools. Fine. No problem. Then, later that day at a baptism, I tracked down the directeur of the primary school and told him I wanted to do some presentations on malaria in the primary schools. Fine. We'd love to have you. I let M. Diallo, my counterpart know, and he told me to go for it.
Perfect! That was the easy part.

Phase # 2: Preparing visual aids
Yeah, here's the hard part. So as I may have previously mentioned, the illiteracy rate in Guinea must be well over 50%. I think there may be one grown woman in Bouliwel who can read and write a little, if that, and the non-fonctionnaire* men aren't much better.
"Well Andrew," you might say, "surely 5th and 6th grade kids ought to be able to read, right?"
Hm. Well, not necessarily. Education in Bouliwel (and the vast majority of Guinea) really stinks. Classrooms are dirty and ill-kept, teachers are poorly trained and poorly paid, kids are often forced to stay home to do chores or work in the fields, and overall a nasty, oppressive system of rote-learning keeps most kids from learning anything significant. All of which is made even worse when you only go to school for 2 hours a day, 4 days a week and your own parents are inalphabets* (as is the case with most children).
So all this is to say, whenever I want to do a health sensitization, I need to have pretty, pretty pictures and not much writing. (Imagine, for a moment, what life would be like if, every time you looked at writing all you saw were black lines and circles and the occasional dot) Which for me is not easy because I stink at art. Oh Mom, how hard you tried to raise your little children to be artsy, and cultured! And how hard we refused, and decided to play sports instead! If only we had known...
Anyway, I needed to make a bunch of posters with mosquitos and sick people and mosquito nets and stuff on them, and I knew I blew at art, so I grabbed my health manual and copied over a bunch of images* from my paludisme* workbook onto some big flip-chart paper. This took me several mornings of work, but after many painstaking hours of tracing and coloring in the health center ("what is that crazy porto* doing today?" people ask), I finally emerged-- victorious-- with three big beautiful malaria posters. Joy.

Phase # 3: Figuring out what I'm going to say
This part was pretty simple. I just looked over my malaria notes, gathered my thoughts, put myself inside the head of a Guinean 5th grader (what would I want to pay attention to during the half-hour before recess?), and trusted in my tried-and-true motto: Just wing it 'cause if you try and overplan it it's just gonna get screwed up anyway. And if it's really bombing just say something in Pular and they'll all laugh. Great motto.

Phase # 4: Actually giving the thing
So obviously this was the most important step, and I thought it went well. I showed up at the ecole 15 minutes early, greeted the 5th grade teacher, M. Sidibe, taped my posters onto the blackboard, and sat quietly at the back of the class, about as inconspicously as a large tapir charging down a group of small children (My approach to dealing with stares, whispers, and giggles varies: sometimes I just ignore it, sometimes I smile back or say hello, and other times I do something really weird like snort, make faces, or pick my nose (although, in retrospect, picking your nose here isn't weird at all ;) ah Guinea). When the kids got done with their exercise, M. Sidibe called me to the front and let me know that the floor was mine. Suh-weet!
To start, I made them all stand up and then I taught* them "heads, shoulders, knees, and toes," just to lighten the atmosphere and make a complete fool of myself to loosen 'em up a little bit. The salle* officially chauffed*, I then launched into my malaria shpiel, explaining that the illness is caused by a pesky blood parasite transmitted by sonsolis*, that you can only get it by way of mosquitos, and if anybody tells you you can get it from mangoes or the sun (common misconceptions) they are wrooooong. Very wrong.
I speak in slow, basic French with a smattering of Pular, looking to Sidibe during moments of confusion for a more detailed Pular translation. There were about 40 kids in the class.
They seemed mostly attentive, laughing at my occasional manhandling of their native language and responding at all the right intervals. They followed me through my symptoms explanation, facilitated, of course, by my beautiful visual aids (although I had this one picture that was supposed to be of a kid sweating, because that's what happens when you get malaria sometimes, and they all thought he had an outbreak of warts. Ehh). When I got to the Comment Eviter le Palu?* section, they latched onto the visual aids, and seemed to absorb really well the importance of mosquito nets, of long pants and long sleeves at night, of filling in or covering up stagnant water sources (mosquitos reproduce in stagnant water like puddles or wells), and several other key preventative measures. I encouraged them to take the issue seriously, recounting briefly the story of the little girl we lost to malaria two months ago in the health center-- a girl who could have easily been in 5th grade. They nodded and seemed to get it.
After probing a little for questions or confusing material, they all seemed ready for a little Porto tomfoolery, so I performed a hearty rendition of "I'm a little teapot" and called it a day, thanking Sidibe and his class.

Phase # 5: The follow-up
Yeah, so this guy seems a little less structured, and in fact, I'm still figuring out how to do it. For now, I mostly corner small children around the village and interrogate them: Can you get malaria by being out in the sun too long? Will you ask your dad to put screens on your house windows? Arrgh. Stuff like that. I am going to continue my series of malaria sensitizations with the other grade levels in Bouliwel-centre and hopefully get out to the primary schools in the districts as well. I'm also working closely with M. Diallo to monitor the number of malaria patients we see at the Health Center on a weekly basis. And, in conjunction with my Health Director and some other Health Volunteers, we're looking for ways to make mosquito nets cheaper and more accessible to everyone who needs one. As they say here in Guinea, "little by little, the bird makes his nest." Good stuff.

That's all for now! Donnie Stuart and his studly pectoral muscles are flying into Conakry on Monday night to visit for a few days, and after that I am taking a brief vacation in N. Ireland to see my beautiful girlfriend, Rene Marshall! Your prayers are much appreciated as Conakry has seen a few issues with some disgruntled military officers recently.

Love you all!
Andrew

Appendix:
*primary school (grades 1-6)
*like a region or state
*the guy who's in charge of the village and all the districts in the local county
*all the gnarled old men who walk around in big boubous and who command lots of respect
*you can figure this one out guys
*fonctionnaires are the state-assigned skilled workers in the village-- usually teachers, health workers, civil servants, and others. Bouliwel-centre has around 20 (there are many more when you take into account all the outlyign districts). My counterpart, M. Diallo, is a fonctionnaire, for example
*illiterate people
*you can figure this one out too, I'm pretty sure
*malaria
*white person in Pular
*when I say "taught," I mean I sang and told them to repeat after me, which went something like this: "OK kids, 'heads, shoulders, knees, and toes, knees and toes.'" (beckon for them to repeat) "Haads, blah blah giggles blah blah giggles." Good times.
*room
*warmed up
*mosquito in Pular
*How to avoid getting malaria